


You Wouldn't Believe Me If I Told You

by ObsidianJade



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Elves love Viggo's oven mitts, Except it really does?, Gen, Orlando can make casserole!, This has no explanation, This needs no explanation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 03:18:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Viggo wakes up to find an Elf in his kitchen wearing oven mitts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Wouldn't Believe Me If I Told You

**Author's Note:**

> This is crack. Like, SO MUCH UTTER CRACK. I have no excuse (beyond the usual sleep deprivation) and no explanation (beyond RotK coming on television and me trying to explain it to my parents, who are at best passingly familiar with the books as of thirty or so years ago.)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: All characters appearing in this story are owned by the estate of JRR Tolkien, the creative team answerable to Peter Jackson, or themselves, depending. I make no claim to ownership and no money from this work.

When Viggo wakes up, there is an Elf in his kitchen.

She’s female, red-haired, and dressed in Mirkwood colors. Viggo’s been actively avoiding the promotional material for the Hobbit movie releases, but she looks vaguely familiar none the less. 

He looks at her for a moment longer, noticing for the first time that she’s wearing his oven mitts on her hands. 

He turns around and goes back to bed.

He wakes up again what he thinks is about an hour later, rolls over, and nearly decapitates himself, because Anduril has gone from leaning up against the kitchen wall to lying on his pillow. 

He finds his cellphone (buried under a pair of dirty socks he think he was wearing yesterday... or possibly last week), dials Orlando, and leaves a three-minute stream of Elven profanity on the Brit’s voicemail. It would have been longer than three minutes, but the battery on his phone died just as he was ramping up to a diatribe about sexual relations with Wargs.

He finds his phone’s charging cord and plugs the phone in, wondering why he still has the damn phone when he hates it as much as he does, and goes back to the kitchen.

The Elf is gone, which is a smaller mercy than it should be, because there are now three Dwarves in his kitchen, juggling his crockery. 

One is blond and young, one is brunet and even younger, and the third is less young but wearing a frankly absurd hat and playing a wooden flute, which Viggo thinks is incongruous because Dwarves work with metal and Elves work with wood, then thinks it is more incongruous still because he didn’t hear the flute from outside the kitchen. 

“Have you got any beer?” the young brunet Dwarf asks him, puppyish face hopeful, and Viggo points at the refrigerator and refuses to think of the possibility that he’s going insane, before turning and going back to bed.

Jonathan gets a very long and very detailed description of an ancient Egyptian prostitute having sex with a camel left on his voicemail in French, and Viggo goes back to sleep for another hour and hopes his life will return to his version of normal when he wakes up.

That morning, take three, gives him Gandalf the Grey sitting at his kitchen table, drinking wine out of a handmade stoneware mug. Gandalf’s staff and Glamdring are leaning against the kitchen wall next to Anduril, which Viggo had not actually taken the time to move off his pillow. 

“I think I’m losing my mind,” Viggo admits, a tad plaintively, and sits down opposite the wino wizard at his kitchen table. 

“Forgive me for this, but not all things that wander are lost,” Gandalf answers, and pours Viggo a healthy measure of wine into a mug that wasn’t there a moment before. 

Viggo drinks it, probably more quickly than he should, and goes back to bed.

Sir Ian actually picks up when Viggo calls - why, Viggo has no idea, since it’s an absolutely ungodly hour across the Pond - (he has, of course, forgotten that Sir Ian is stateside) - and Viggo mumbles a few sentences about copulating barnacles in Danish before hanging up again and going back to sleep.

It only feels like about ten minutes before he wakes up again, jolted from sleep by a resounding crash from his kitchen. He weighs the odds of there being an Orc in his house for a long moment, picks up Anduril (once again resting on his pillow), and ventures into his kitchen with the blade held in a carefully-remembered grip.

He finds a Hobbit head-first in one of his lower kitchen cabinets, backside in the air and hairy toes drumming the floor in agitation, and has to consider carefully before resisting the urge to poke him in the posterior with Anduril. It’s not as though the blade is very sharp, though.... 

The Hobbit extracts himself from the cabinet before Viggo’s exasperation can get the better of him, straightening up with a victorious noise that vanishes into an alarmed squeak when he catches sight of Viggo, glowering intently at him with a bared sword.

Two bared swords, actually, Viggo realizes. He always sleeps in the nude, and it hadn’t really occurred to him to put clothing on before coming into the kitchen. Any of the four times today.

“I’ve already dealt with an Elf, three Dwarves in my beer and a Wizard in my wine, and I haven’t had clothes on for any of them,” he informs the Hobbit, waving Anduril in a manner that could be construed as either vaguely threatening or mildly drunk. “Just take whatever you need and disappear off to wherever.”

“I’ve, err, already found what I was looking for, thank you,” the Hobbit answers awkwardly, hastily stuffing something into his waistcoat pocket. Viggo realizes with mild trepidation (should it only be mild?) that this is probably Bilbo, which means the One Ring is probably in his kitchen. (He really should be more worried about that, he thinks. Instead, he turns and goes back to bed, waving at the Hobbit over his shoulder.)

Elijah (not Holm, because the man would have a fit, and not Martin, because Viggo doesn’t have his number) gets a message suggesting a potentially physically impossible application of a large cactus, in Spanish. He gets a text in reply about three minutes later, stating simply ‘ _I don’t even want to know.’_

Viggo’s barely closed his eyes this time when he feels the air in the room shift. He sits up too quickly and is left blinking away the spots in front of his eyes as he stares at the figure now standing at the end of his bed.

“You’re not in the Hobbit,” he manages after a moment, staring into the stormy eyes gazing back at him with as much confusion as concern. 

“And whose choice was that, again?” Aragorn tips his head in challenge, a lock of dirty hair falling across his eyes as he does so. “A way could have been found.”

“I am not a whore to public opinion,” Viggo growls, punching his pillow and suppressing the urge to bury his head under it and wait for the world to go away. “I don’t need millions of screaming, illiterate movie fans desperate for my ass to make me feel validated.”

Aragorn snorts a laugh, shaking his head a little, and drops down to sit on the bed next to Viggo. He smells like wet leaves and sweat, and Viggo wrinkles his nose a little but doesn’t object when Aragorn toes off his boots and stretches out on the bed beside him.

“Go back to sleep, mellon nin,” Aragorn murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to Viggo’s forehead, and Viggo’s last thought before sleep drags him back under is what the hell kind of message he’s supposed to leave on his own voicemail.

________________________________________

The angle of the light when he wakes up tells him that it’s late afternoon, and when he stumbles bleary-eyed into his kitchen, wearing a tattered plaid flannel robe and carrying Anduril, he finds an Elf in his kitchen, wearing his oven mitts, _yet again_.

“Oh! You’re up!” Orlando says, cheerfully surprised, and sets the casserole dish down on the Celtic-knot trivet with a thunk. “I was starting to worry, you’ve been out since yesterday.”

Viggo blinks at him.

“I was in the area,” Orlando continues (because LA is ‘in the area’ of Idaho when you accept the kind of money Orlando does and can charter a flight on a whim), opening cabinet doors and nosing about until he finds a stack of clean dishes in the fourth cabinet he checks. “And you usually don’t leave strings of Sindarin gibberish on my mobile when you’re feeling mentally stable.”

Viggo leaves all of his nearly weekly messages to Orlando in Sindarin. Orlando doesn’t have a very high opinion of Viggo’s mental stability. 

“So you flew in from Los Angeles and drove two hours from the airport to make me...” Viggo lifts the cover on the casserole dish with one of the oven mitts Orlando had abandoned on the table and surveys the contents suspiciously - “egg white and bell pepper casserole and berate me on my mental health?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Orlando drops a serving spoon and two plates on the table and going back to hunt for cutlery. 

Viggo silently helps himself to casserole and thinks that it’s nice to have friends who are at least nearly as crazy as he is. 

“So,” he begins, when Orlando returns bearing forks, “do you think I can still attend one of the Hobbit premieres?”

Orlando drops the forks, thankfully over the table and not on the floor that hadn’t been swept for a week even before being exposed to all manner of odd feet tromping across it. “Yeah. Yeah, I can - but what - yes. I can call Peter and arrange something, but what changed your mind?”

Viggo side-eyes the oven mitts, grabs a fork, and answers simply, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”


End file.
